Scene 2 #3
We all know what happened. USC is the perfect school for Juliet. She’ll return to LA and major in drama and get to pursue acting at the same time. Rob wants to be with her, so he’s agreed to follow her there. He’s taking on her dream now. Stanford is already outdated.
“I have a friend coming over to study,” I say. “I’m going to head upstairs.”
“The girls?” Rob’s mom asks. She loves referring to Charlie and Olivia as “the girls.” When we were younger, she once took Charlie and me down to LA for the day on a “girls’ shopping trip.” Thinking about that and standing here with her, I realize how much I miss them all. Rob’s family, I mean.
“No, this guy Len,” I say.
“Len Stephens?” my mom asks. She perks her head up from her coffee cup.
“Isn’t that the guy who Rob—?” Rob’s mom taps the table.
“Yeah.” I swallow. “It was no one’s fault, really. Things just got out of hand.”
“Rob punched Len Stephens?” my mom says, her eyes wide. “He was such a sweet kid. He used to have lessons right before you at Famke’s, remember? He was so talented.”
“He still is,” I say. I don’t even know if that’s true, but I feel like I need to say something in his defense. And it’s easier to stand up for his talent than his sweetness.
Rob’s mom squints and runs her pointer finger back and forth across her forehead. “Rob admitted it was his fault, you know,” she says, her eyes closed. “He didn’t even try to argue.”
“He’s a good kid,” my mom says gently, putting a hand on her shoulder.
“I think he misses you,” she says, looking at me. “And that Juliet…” Her voice trails off, and she brushes her eyes and straightens up. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I know this isn’t easy on you. You all used to be so close.”
The doorbell rings, and I use it as an exit strategy. “It was good to see you,” I say. “Mom, we’ll just work in my room.”
“Do you guys want some apples?”
“It’s not a playdate.”
“I know,” she says, standing up and coming over to me. “Just let me take care of you while I still can.”
I roll my eyes and glance at the door. “Try to restrain yourself,” I say, giving her a quick hug. “We’ll be upstairs.”
Len is standing at the door, his hand against the side panel. He’s got a deep purple bruise all around his right eye.
“Jeez,” I say. “You look like a mess.”
“Thanks,” he says. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
“Do you want some ice?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I know, but that thing looks pretty bad.”
“Could I just come in?”
“Sure,” I say, stepping to the side. “Sorry. My room’s upstairs.”
“You run a tight ship,” he says. “No guided tour?”
“Later,” I say. “Right now we have to work.”
He’s holding a bag of Twizzlers in his hand, and his backpack is missing.
“Where is your study stuff?”
He holds up the bag.
“That’s candy.”
“Your favorite kind, no less.”
I stop. “How do you know that?”
“Chop, chop,” he says, pushing past me and starting up the stairs. “Don’t make me eat these all by myself.”
“But we have to study,” I say, trudging up behind him.
“Let’s just chill for a second,” he says. “The doctor said I really should be resting.”
He halts at the top of the stairs and places a hand daintily on his cheek.
“You’re lying,” I say. “But fine.”
“Which is yours?” he says, stretching a hand out in either direction.
“On the left.”
We settle on my bedroom floor, the Twizzlers between us. He opens the bag and offers me one. I take it.
“So what happened?” I ask.
Len sighs and rolls a Twizzler between his palms. “Nothing, really. Rob took the blame. They let me go, but I heard he got suspended.” He looks to see my reaction.
“Mhm, me too. You must be relieved.”
Len shrugs.
“Oh, right. I forgot. Suspension is like a paid vacation for those uninterested in school.”
He squints and looks at me, leaning his elbows casually on his knees. “Is that what you think?”
“Yeah,” I say. My voice gets quiet. All of a sudden he’s making me nervous. “I mean, you never do homework and you’re always giving teachers a hard time. Are you even applying to college?”
I pull another Twizzler out of the bag and busy myself with tearing it down like string cheese.
“Didn’t know you paid so much attention to me, Rosaline.” He tilts his head to the side and gives me a lopsided smile.
I open my mouth to talk, but he holds up his finger.
“For the record, I do the homework. I’m here, aren’t I? And I don’t give all teachers a hard time, just the ones that could use it. And as for college?” He raises his eyebrows. “I already got in.”
“But early admission decisions don’t come until next month, at the earliest.”
“I got in this summer,” he says. He flops his knees down to the ground and grabs the candy bag.
“We were juniors.”
“Mhm,” he says, chewing. “Good point.”
“You can’t even apply to college junior year.”
“Yep,” he says. “All true.”
“What is it, then? Continuing education courses? Having to repeat high school doesn’t count as college.”
“Thanks for your concern,” he says. “But actually, no. Juilliard.”
My jaw drops so far, I think I might have to manually pick it up off the floor. When I finally start speaking, it comes out like word vomit: “What? Are you kidding me? Why?”
Len laughs. “The surprise I can take, but ‘why’ feels a little harsh.”
“I’m sorry, but are you being serious?”
“You want to see the acceptance letter?”
I eye him closely. It’s impossible, but I also don’t know why he’d lie about it. It seems like the sort of thing he’d like to keep quiet, actually. But Juilliard?
“Isn’t that the school for prodigies?”
“Prodigy,” he says, tapping his chest. “Right here.”
“In what?”
“Okay.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Piano.”
It makes perfect sense now. Why he’s so smart but doesn’t care about school. “You kept playing,” I say.
I stand and extend my hand to him. He gives me a curious look but lets me help him up.
I march him, in much the same way Mr. Davis did Rob this afternoon, down the stairs and into the den.
My mom and Rob’s mom have disappeared from the kitchen, probably outside.
When he sees the piano, he starts laughing.
“You kept it,” he says.
“Yeah, my parents always thought maybe I’d come back to it.” I sit down on the bench and face him. “Will you play something for me?”
He interlaces his fingers and spins his thumbs, like he’s considering it. “Yes,” he says, “but only if you’ll play something for me first.”
“I’m not the one who just got into Juilliard.”
“Actually,” he says, “I got in this summer. So it’s been a while.”
“Funny.”
“Come on,” he says. “I think you’ll find you remember more than you think.”
I take a deep breath and lift up the fallboard.
Then I place my hands on the keys. I try to remember a piece I used to love, Fleur de Lis.
The first few notes and measures sound rusty—like the spokes on an ungreased wheel.
But as I go, I start to loosen up a bit.
It’s harder than I remember, and I get out of breath in just a few seconds, but it also feels wonderful.
Like finally moving my legs after a really long airplane ride.
I stop after about a minute, and I realize I’m nearly panting.
“Not bad,” Len says. “You need to start playing again.”
I do. I’d forgotten how alive piano used to make me feel. The music sends my cells spinning, like the adrenaline high you get after a long run.
Len slides in next to me and runs his hands over the keys, and I notice it again—that birthmark on his thumb.
It’s red, a deep burgundy, and when I follow it, I see it runs up the length of his arm, or at least up to where he has his shirtsleeves rolled up.
It looks like a map, the way it spans and dips and runs like continents and countries and rivers across his skin.
It’s actually beautiful, not gross at all, and now that I see it, I can’t believe I missed it all these years.
Len’s breathing slows next to me and his eyes slip closed, and I realize I’m holding my breath too, that the whole room is.
It feels like the moment before a rainstorm, the sky heavy and dense, the moisture so thick you can already feel it.
And then the first droplets fall, cool and precise and quiet.
They build slowly until the moment when the heavens open up and it pours.
I recognize the tune immediately. It’s by Frédéric Chopin and it’s called, if you’d believe it, Raindrops.
Famke used to play it for me. Sometimes if I was being stubborn or tired or just off, she would sit me down at the edge of the bench and let me listen to her for a change.
If it’s possible, Len plays it even better than she did.
His fingers glide over the keys like the wind dancing on the beach.
Pulling up the sand, twirling it, asking it to play.
I tear my eyes away from his hands and look up at his face.
His eyes are no longer closed, but they’re still, calm, focused.
Like the counterpart to the motion of his fingers: steadfast and unmoving.
He stops, and the room falls silent. But the silence is pulled tight, stretched, as if the room itself—the sofa and chairs and even the curtains on the windows—is restraining itself from breaking into applause.
Len lifts his fingers off the keys, slowly, and returns them to his lap.
Then he looks at me, and it’s kind of like I’ve never seen him before.
Because this person next to me isn’t the guy from school who gives teachers lip.
He’s not sarcastic, but funny; and he’s not rude, but witty; and his hair isn’t messy, it’s, well, kind of sexy.
He runs a hand through it and smiles down at the keys. Then he reaches to close the fallboard and so do I, and for a moment our fingers touch, midair. Immediately something shocks me, and I pull back.
“Static electricity,” Len says, pointing to his T-shirt.